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TWO POEMS
by Denver
Butson
once
upon. a time.
there were
lips. on the side of her neck.
well not lips. but the prints of lips.
left red on her skin. where my lips
were once. upon a time. or upon
a hundred times.
I said
whose lips?
and she said
I cannot tell you
Cannot?
I said
Cannot.
she said
because I don't know.
someone
danced past us
nipples through thin fabric
I thought briefly
of the fabric and
of the fabric falling away.
and then what to do next.
it was
a moment.
and then it was gone.
like love between lovers.
eventually.
whose
lips? I said again
this time a little louder.
I do not
know
she said
do not?
I said
do not
she said
because I can't
tell you
the music
was too loud
for me to leave her
then and there.
not loud
enough
for me to think about forever.
whose
lips? I almost said again
but decided against it.
and put
my lips next to those
on her neck
I felt
her pulse there
under my lips under someone else's lips
and knew that
no matter what no matter who
time kept moving forward
even under her skin
just like always.
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the
sounds of our kisses
how
we broke open the night
with the sounds of our kisses
under
the bridges birds fly low
they are undisturbed
by the sounds of our kisses
the
moon's blue shadow
is a little bluer
next to the sounds of our kisses
can
you unzip me you asked
your elbows to the sky
I'll
unzip you I said
with the sounds of our kisses
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Denver
Butson is the author of two books, triptych
(The Commoner Press, 1999) and Mechanical
Birds (St. Andrews Press, 2001). His work has appeared in anthologies
such as Ravishing
Disunities and Ikons,
and in journals such as The Yale Review, Ontario Review,
Caliban, Quarterly West, and Exquisite Corpse. |
